A Beating Pulse
by Indie204
Summary: Sherlock and John are faced with something different; this time, the ring at the door of 221B Baker Street is not for the world's only consulting detective, but for Captain John Watson. Fifteen year old Parker Bennet's father served with John in Afghanistan, and was recently pronounced dead after a bombing of his medical station.But Parker has unusual evidence that he's still alive
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome, dear reader, to my rendition of the goings-on at Baker Street. Enjoy!**

"A case, John! I need a case!"

John Watson didn't even look up from the Wednesday morning paper.

"'Afraid there's nothing on the agenda today, Sherlock." The detective was always restless in between cases.

Sherlock simply gave a disgusted sigh, walked into the kitchen, and plopped himself down on the stool in front of his microscope. Every couple of minutes the world's only consulting detective would sigh quite dramatically with a pointed look out the window at the city of London sprawled below, and John knew he was mentally cursing it for not churning up a murder or a kidnapping from its depths. John gave a small smile and shook his head as he turned his attention back to the paper in his hands.

As he reached the sports section of the paper, the doorbell rang, just once. Sherlock's head snapped up, and a small smile crept across his lips.

"Wonderful, buzz them in."

John gave an annoyed little huff as he set the paper down and pressed the small white button that allowed whoever was at the door to enter the building. Sherlock was standing now, and talking excitedly to himself.

" I wonder what it is? Murder, kidnapping, drug lord, stolen property, fraud? Oh this is excellent, couldn't have come a moment too soon-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted. The detective stopped to look over at his blogger. "Might want to tone down the enthusiasm a bit when they come in."

Sherlock sighed and went to sit across from the couch. John sat next to him, and together they waited for their newest case.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Sherlock's interest was piqued as soon as she walked in, and he could tell John's was as well. Teenaged girl, no more than sixteen at most. Stereotypically long blond hair, blue eyes with eyelashes that were just a bit too short, a beauty mark near the right side of her mouth, about 5 feet, six inches in height. Looked slightly lost and uncomfortable, not scared or worried like most who came to him with a case. An army green shoulder bag rested against her hips, covered in an array of buttons. He had to compliment her taste in coats; a long black trench coat, just like his, with a black belt cinched at the waist. Brown mid-calf boots. The real question was, what was she going to be; another child looking for a lost pet, or was this an actual case he was looking at?

Sherlock motioned for her to sit down on the couch across from them. She sat awkwardly, and he clapped his hands together once and addressed the girl.

"Right then! What's your business here?"

The girl looked at him, almost surprised. Why? He just didn't want to waste time. Straight to the point. She spoke, a look of slightly bewildered acceptance on her face.

"Uh, right then. I'm looking for a Mr. John Watson?"

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

John wanted to laugh at the expression on Sherlock's face. He looked between the doctor and the girl, as if he couldn't fathom the fact that she was not here for his expertise. She sat there staring at the two men, waiting for an answer.

He turned to John, completely ignoring her. "Why would someone come to see you?" His tone was filled with boyish annoyance, so much so that John couldn't keep a small smile off his lips. That's what he gets, the arrogant git. But he really had no idea who she was, or why she was sitting in the living room of 221b Baker Street.

"Dr. John Watson?" The girl spoke to him, leaning forward in her seat. "Regiment 116, medical unit 57, the British Armed Services, deployed in Afghanistan?"

John was filled with a sense of deja vu. The first time they met, _in the lab, lending him his phone, knowing about his limp, knowing about Harry, knowing about the war, everything_. It was still just as startling to have it happen the second time. But this was a little too specific to be a deduction.

"What? I'm sorry, who are you? How do you know all of that?"

Sherlock was watching the girl very closely. She looks flustered and somewhat embarrassed, but also… desperate? He wasn't sure.

She spoke with a kind of urgency. " My name is Parker Bennett. My father served with you in Afghanistan, from what I've been able to find out. Christopher Bennett, he was a surgeon."

John relaxed a bit. Chris Bennett was a good friend, one of many he had left behind when he was sent home because of his shoulder. But he was still confused as to why his daughter had just turned up unannounced on his doorstep.

" Yes of course," he replied, "we were good friends. Afraid I haven't kept up with anyone out there since I came home. How is he?"

The girl-Parker- looked down at her hands gathered in her lap.

"Well, according to government record, he's dead."

Bloody hell. He was not prepared for that.

Parker continued, still staring at her hands. "Three months ago, he was stationed in a makeshift hospital in Helmand Province, in a warehouse. The warehouse was bombed.

Sherlock's brow was slightly furrowed, the only sign that he was at all affected by what he was hearing. John, on the other hand, was at a loss. Why was his dead friend's daughter sitting in his living room, telling him all this? He looked at Parker, wanting so badly to comfort the curled shouldered girl who sat in front of him, fatherless.

"My god… I'm so sorry. I read about it in the paper, but I didn't know... He was a good man, Chris. You have my condolences."

John could see her draw herself together. She picked her gaze up off the floor to look back up at him.

"Thank you, Mr. Watson." There was a moment of depressed silence. Then Parker spoke to him again, hesitantly. " Actually, that's why I'm here; to talk to you about that. The war, and your time with him. If it's alright by you. I just have some questions."

John was slightly taken aback again, but he recovered.

"Er, yes, of course. It's natural to want to know more concerning the death of a loved one-"

"I don't think he is!" Parker blurted out. She looked down, then up again. "Dead, that is."

John looked at her gently. His voice was dipped with pity as a he replied, "I know that it's difficult to come to terms with, but Parker, I read about the bombing. No one survived.

She looked at him, her expression hardened with belief.

"His body was never identified."

" Many of the victims… They were burned beyond identification, even with dental records." Shredding her desperate hope with each word.

"But that's not it! I would know if he was dead!"

It was tearing John apart. Protect the girl's last shards of hope, or not disguise reality?

"How?" He asked, with his own sort of desperation. " Parker, I'm sorry, but there's… there's no way he could have survived those blasts. How could he be alive?"

She stared at him with a fierce determination. He wished she could just see it, just accept the fact that Chris was gone. It was futile of course. No child wants to accept that they're fatherless.

" I don't know," she replied, " but I know he isn't dead." She saw John about to intervene again, and quickly continued. "Wait! Hear me out. I lost mum a few years ago-"

Jesus Christ. An orphan.

"- and dad knew that heading off to the war could leave me parentless. So he set up an account, in the bank. No one was given the authorization code to open it, not even his broker. My father was a very secretive man, who had a considerable amount of wealth that he didn't want the wrong people to get their hands on. He had a small chip implanted in his wrist that measured his pulse. If it ever were to stop for a certain amount of time, a signal would activate an email which would send me the code to the vault."

John looked at her, not knowing why she was telling him this.

"So…"

Parker looked him dead in the eyes. " I never got the code."

" Did you consider-" John began.

"That the chip was faulty? That chip contained my entire future if my father were to die. Do you think he would risk to use faulty or cheap equipment?"

Sherlock Holmes, who had barely said a word since Parker entered the flat, suddenly stood up and clapped his hands together with a grin on his face.

"We'll take the case!"

**Hey, so this is my first run at a Sherlock fanfic, but I love the characters wanted to try something new. Please review, and PM me any suggestions you may have. I also I am trying to write an OC into the story while still staying true to the characters and their scenarios. Thanks :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again! I know it hasn't been that long in between postings, and I'm warning you now not to expect this often, I just thought I'd get another chapter out before the school week starts. Just as a note, I had to play on the orphanage stereotype a bit for plot and character purposes- I know that most homes aren't like this, but some are and it's important to character development. Anyway, enjoy and please review!**

_Sherlock Holmes, who had barely said a word since Parker entered the flat, suddenly stood up and clapped his hands together with a grin on his face._

"_We'll take the case!"_

John watched as Parker turned to look at Sherlock, completely bemused.

"I'm sorry, and you are?"

Sherlock held out his hand and said in his usual pompous tone, " Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective."

Parker had gotten up to return the handshake, but to John's confusion, the girl now backed away from Sherlock's hand as if it were something dangerous. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights; nervous and skittish, as if she was going to take off running from the flat at any moment.

"I'm sorry," she said as she moved away from the two of them towards the door, " I really don't want to involve the police-"

John stepped in. "No, it's alright, he's not with the police. He just works with them from time to time."

She still looked wary, even more so when Sherlock inquired,"why don't you want the police involved?" John could nearly smack that man for his horrible sense of social norms. Obviously the questions were causing the girl anxiety. He put a hand on her arm lightly stop her from backing away.

"It's alright," he repeated. "If you don't want police, we won't contact them."

Parker gave a small nod. John smiled at her and motion to the couch.

"Now, why don't you have a seat? You said you had some questions for me?"

Parker moved to sit down when Sherlock spoke to her again.

"Do they beat you often?"

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Sherlock noticed when she had moved to take a seat. It was obvious, really. Well, apparently not to John, who was looking back and forth between him and Parker like some ridiculous cartoon character on the telly. As soon as John was able to find the words, he spoke.

"I'm sorry, beat?"

Sherlock stopped looking at Parker for a moment to answer John. " Yes John, it often happens in large homes for orphans." His gaze returned once more to the girl in front of him, who was looking at him oddly; almost as if she was deducing _him,_ calculating him somehow. "Does it happen often, then? Fists, or some sort of blunt instrument?"

"How-" she began.

"Could I tell? The way you move suggests you're in pain; bruising along your back and arms. You're also wearing long sleeves which you constantly pull over your hands; you're hiding marks or bruises. Given the fact that you're an orphan who's shown up at the house of two men you've never met without any sort of guardian suggests you're in a large group home."

It was as if hearing Sherlock's deductions had wiped her face clean of any emotion. The only reaction he could read on her face was a slight tightening around the eyes. So he was correct, obviously. He was also impressed; most people, never mind someone so young, could clear away their emotions like that. It took years of practice.

Sherlock was snapped out of his musings when Parker addressed him.

"Broken-off chair leg. And you were right, arms and back. You're very good."

For once, Sherlock didn't feel like bragging. A chair leg. It made sense;

_They came at her, holding the leg like a club. Starting beating it over her back. She would have curled into a ball on the floor. They kept hitting her. Her arms went up to protect her head- arms were bruised. _He could read the past from her like a map.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

John Watson had been in a war. He'd seen men and women who had been shot, littered with shrapnel, stabbed. Seen them die, or become empty husks where a person once was. But this was another kind of horrifying. She was just a girl, for gods sake! A girl who had already lost her parents, who had gone through what no child should ever have to. Now this? And the way she spoke about it; detached, offhandedly and blase, as if it was some sort of trivial everyday occurrence.

"That's barbaric," he spoke aloud.

Parker shrugged.

"It's pretty common, or so the other girls there tell me. They've been in the system much longer than I have."

John wasn't sure what to do. "Are you alright?" Stupid. Of course she wasn't alright. He continued, expanding on what he had meant. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

Parker shook her head. "Too many questions. Besides, it's not so bad. I've had a few cracked ribs before; that was probably the worst."

John was feeling more and more distraught. Sherlock spoke up from next to him, staring shrewdly at Parker.

"That's why you don't want the police involved."

"I'm already going to get it for coming here," Parker replied. "They caught me the first time," -the bruises on her skin were given definition-"so they know I was trying to run off somewhere."

John just couldn't accept it. "What did they do it for? What justifies hitting a child?"

"The other girls, the one's who have been in the system longer, they say it happens more than most people would think." Obviously. If people knew about this…

Parker continued. "Sure, there are some good places, but we're all shuffled around so much that we're never in one place for long."

John felt sick. "That's atrocious."

Parker gave a little half shrug. "It's never too bad; they don't want to mark us too badly, or people will have to stop pretending they don't know what's going on."

She turned to look out the window at the humming city spread out below. Her gaze turned shattered, and she spoke quietly, almost to herself.

"What's worst is feeling like an object of little worth. People like me, we live like library books; borrowed and returned, jostled and torn, patched up just enough to not fall apart completely." Her voice shook. "That's the hardest part."

John's heart broke. Someone so young shouldn't feel so much pain. Sherlock, for once, had no question, no display of wit. He sat in silence like the doctor, neither of them wanting to break the trance that had fallen upon the room.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat, and asked her in a gentleness that was out of character, "Why were you placed in the system? Surely you have relatives who would take you in?"

To his curiosity, Parker's face turned stoney. In a cold, clipped voice she replied, "I was staying with my uncle Henry while my father was in Afghanistan."

John looked perturbed. "Why didn't he continue to look after you?" he questioned.

Parker's tone was bitter. "When my father died, he was all broken up, arranging the funeral and assuring me that 'he was there for me'. Once he found out I didn't have the password, however, he was much less warm hearted."

It never managed sink in with the detective as to just how cruel people could be. But a gold-digging relative… Hm. He needed more information, more pieces to complete this puzzle. He was just about to ask Parker another question when the girl looked to the clock on the mantle.

"I've got to get going now, sorry. If I'm not back by seven I'll miss supper." She grabbed her bag and buttoned up her coat. "I'll try to come back around soon, but I won't be able to give you much warning."

John stood up and went to open the door for her. "Right then. If we're out, we'll have across the hall buzz you in. Don't worry," he added, seeing the look of hesitation on her face, "she can keep a secret. She usually knows about our cases."

"Thank you." Parker gave both Sherlock and John a small nod, and closed the door behind her with a soft click.

John went and sat back down next to Sherlock, who is staring intently at the door where Parker had just been standing.

"Well," said John, "that was something new."

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the door. "Indeed."

"Do you think-" John stopped mid sentence as Sherlock abruptly stood up, walked over to his violin, and began to play, staring out the window at the slowing setting sun. John gave a small sigh and went into the kitchen to make some tea. Meanwhile, the slow, weeping melody carried off the strings of the violin, out the window and into the darkening city of London.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello again! Sorry it's been so long in between updates, but I'm trying to make this case as Sherlockian and intricate as possible, and let me tell you, it's bloody hard! I worked through so many scenarios and plot twists and plot maps and it's still nothing close to the brilliant cases in the show. I think I've got it down now, but bear with me; if there's a lull between updates, it means I'm attempting to thicken/sort out the plot. I've already got a few more chapters in the works, so the wait will hopefully be shorter this time. As always, pleasepleaseplease review! Seriously, it keeps me going and provides the fuel for me to keep going with this thing!**

Sherlock was looking out the window of 221B Baker street when a sleek black town car came gliding down the road, stopping gently in front of the flat.

Mycroft.

Sherlock gave a huff of annoyance. He didn't feel like going over the pretense of small talk while each Holmes deduced the other; he had no patience to put up with Mycroft today. In his mind he was still combing through the little information he had gathered when Parker Bennett had sat in the den. _Her father was presumed dead, yet the girl hadn't received the passcode. Possible, however unlikely, that the chip had malfunctioned. But combined with the fact that a body was never produced… 'lost in action' would probably be the official statement_. And then there was the girl herself. Sherlock had never encountered someone of that age able to distance themselves from emotion the way she did. Nothing near his skill level of course, but still, impressive. She was a puzzle. Not for the first time, Sherlock Holmes wished he was able to connect with others the way most people could. He wished to be able to assimilate himself with their emotions, to _empathetic_, a trait people often pointed out he lacked. Because for the first time since Jim Moriarty made had himself known, Sherlock was curious about the case, but he was just as intrigued about the person behind it.

So the last thing he wanted was his older brother breathing down his neck when he was trying to think. But the British government was already walking up the stairs, which were groaning quite audibly; obviously the new diet wasn't going well. He wished John was there; John always felt obligated to fill the long silences between the brothers' conversation, so Sherlock was usually able to say as little as possible.

Mycroft entered the flat with his usual demanding presence, the aura he exuded of _'I am important. Pay attention to me'_. The small drizzle outside was accompanied by the black umbrella hooked over his arm, which was placed in the stand before he removed his coat. So, thought Sherlock, this was to be more than a pop by visit to remind him to catch up on sleep or call mum and dad.

"Brother dear."

Sherlock answered, still looking out the window. "Mycroft."

The elder Holmes brother wandered into the kitchen and set about making himself a cup of tea. Sherlock smirked as he heard his brother shudder as he opened the fridge to get milk; the hands in the ziplock bag were part of an experiment on the decay of fingernails after death.

A minute or so later, Mycroft came came back into the den, mug in hand.

"I'm working on a case, Mycroft." A clear statement: don't bother me.

"Ah yes," Mycroft took a sip of his tea. "The little visitor you had the other day. You've taken whatever sort of case she presented then? Interesting. Children aren't exactly your forte."

Sherlock turned to his brother, eyes glinting with annoyance. "I removed the cameras your team had _ever_ so expertly hidden around the flat. You can't simply spy on me in my own home whenever you please. I have a right to my privacy."

"Yes, but you have no say in how I use the city's security cameras."

Sherlock glared at him. "And there just happens to be one situated conveniently outside the door to the building?" He questioned, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Mycroft simply smirked at him in the manner only known to elder siblings.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped at him, "then you know I've got a case and I'm busy." Sherlock turned his back on his brother, staring out the window once more in a stance that clearly read 'leave me alone'. But as usual, Mycroft ignored his brother's thinly veiled dismissal. He went over to John's chair and sat down.

"I am curious now, bother. What sort of case could a teenage girl possibly offer?"

"You must have already dug up any information available on her, or at the very least listened in on our conversation. Surely you have already concocted several ideas based on your findings."

Mycroft gave a sigh of annoyance. "Contrary to your belief, I do give you and John Watson most the privacy you request. I have no audio or visual devices wired _inside_ 221B. I have no idea what sort of conversation took place. And as for screening the girl, I didn't bother. I had assumed that it would be a trivial case that you would scoff at. And besides, I wouldn't have had the time. Work is rather busy at the moment, what with all the commotion in Afghanistan-" Mycroft caught his mistake a little bit late. "Of course," he said with a patronizing smile towards Sherlock, "you don't need to know about that."

It was an attempt to cover up the information that had just been shared, Sherlock knew. He looked over his brother: _dark circles under the eyes; lack of sleep, more than usual. Skin around left thumb has been incessantly picked at; a nervous habit. Furrow between eyes has not lessened; suggests anxiety, impatience. _Mycroft was stressed over something, which was unusual. Not much fazed either of the Holmes brothers. The way he had quickly tried to conceal his statement meant his stress had something to do with this 'commotion in Afghanistan'. If Mycroft were this anxious, there was something going on in the middle east besides the usual slaughter of troops. Sherlock would ask John about it later.

Mycroft could see Sherlock was deducing him, and was eager to change the subject.

"So, what's the case then? The one that you're so anxious to pursue?"

"It's quite intriguing, involving a possible false death and a large fortune-" Sherlock stopped, and gave his brother a cheshire cat smile. "But of course, you don't need to know about that."

Mycroft gave an annoyed sigh at his younger brother's attitude.

"Well then, tell me about the girl. Who is she?"

Sherlock could tell Mycroft wasn't going to leave him alone without gleaning some sort of information from him.

"Her name is Parker Bennett. She's an orphan who lost her mother some years, and her father recently died in active service as a medical officer in Afghanistan."

Sherlock could feel Mycroft staring at him questioningly, no doubt noting the similarity to John's past, but Sherlock gave no no inclination that he noticed.

Just then Mycroft's phone gave a small buzz. The elder brother glanced down at it, and immediately stood up.

"Right then," Mycroft turned on his heels and grabbed his coat and umbrella. "Good day brother dear."

Sherlock listened to his footsteps fade down the hall.

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Mycroft Holmes strode out of 221B Baker street and got into the town car that sat idling at the curb. Anthea (her current pseudonym) noticed his expression immediately.

"Something's happened." It wasn't a question; the eldest Holmes' eyes were full of energy.

In lieu of answering, Mycroft handed her his phone, an expression that could only be described as triumph on his face. She quickly scanned the email marked URGENT UPDATE. When she was done, she handed Mycroft back his phone and smiled.

"Excellent."


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello there**

**So, I have some serious apologizing to do, for several reasons:**

**1) The ridiculously long hiatus- this seems to be becoming a pattern, but never has it been this bad. As a fanfic reader myself, I know how frustrating it can be when authors don't update. In my defense, my family's getting ready to move across the country, and between packing up my entire house and dealing with the emotional side of it all, I haven't had a chance to catch my breath, much less type up a chapter. **

**IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ!**

**2) This is a big one- dear readers, I have made a mistake. I posted the fourth chapter of this story at about 3 in the morning, and then didn't have a chance to check this website since then. However, yesterday when I did, I noticed a grave error: I had posted the wrong chapter. That chapter (#4) was supposed to occur later in the story, which may explain any confusion you may have had about why Parker was so much more comfortable around Sherlock and John. Basically, this is the chapter that was supposed to follow :$ If you've just started reading this fic, then carry on. If you read the chapter, there's a random and uninformative sneak preview for you :)**

Parker Bennett did not return to 221B Baker Street for nearly a week, and during that time John had become increasingly anxious. What had happened to the girl when she had returned back into the arms of the people who… He still couldn't wrap his head around it. How in bloody hell could something like _the_ _abuse of a child _go unnoticed? It had taken every ounce of restraint he possessed not to let the doctor instincts kick in when Sherlock had pointed out her injuries, but the girl had already been skittish enough, he hadn't wanted to scare her off. She had said she was fine, just bruising. Still, he worried.

Sherlock was also getting antsy. He had taken to pacing the flat, his brain no doubt combing through the little information Parker had been able to share about the case. With each passing day with no news, John watched as the consulting detective only grew more frustrated.

"It's exasperating John!" he yelled as he stormed around the flat, running his hands angrily through his hair. "Not a word for five days! She gave us just enough information to get me interested, and then just up and left!"

John turned around in his chair to face the detective.

"Sherlock, she had to get back to the orphanage so she wouldn't get bloody_ beaten _again!" Sometimes the doctor had to remind Sherlock that not everyone revolved around his personal wishes.

"They'll have hit her anyway," he spoke testily as he flopped into his chair. "For leaving without permission."

John shook his head in disgust at the man in front of him. When Sherlock was unhappy, he lost whatever connections to empathy that he had, becoming this cold, unfeeling bastard.

Sherlock turned over to look at John when he didn't reply. When he saw John's face, his own expression melted away with a sigh into that of acute abashment.

"Sorry. A bit not good?"

John couldn't keep himself from chuckling. "Yeah, a bit."

There was a moment of comfortable silence before both men's heads snapped up. The door had buzzed.

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Sherlock turned to John and gave him a pointed look. Sighing, the army doctor got up and went to go see whoever was calling. Sherlock had calculated an eighty-four percent chance that it was the young Ms. Bennett; it could be another client, or possibly Lestrade, though he would have simply texted Sherlock. Quite unlikely, however possible, it could be Mycroft…. but he always let himself in; the British government didn't like to wait around. Sherlock recalculated the chances to about ninety-three percent.

Sure enough when he heard John come back upstairs, the sound of his footsteps was accompanied by another pair of feet lightly creaking their way up the steps, about four stairs behind John, if Sherlock was hearing correctly. _Anxious, placing physical distance between herself and John. Walking slowly, barely making a sound; used to blending in, hiding her presence. _By this point, he thought it safe to assume that the caller was indeed Parker Bennett.

John opened the door and entered the flat smiling back at the girl standing in the hall behind him.

"Come on in Ms. Bennett. Kettle's just boiled, care for a cuppa?"

Sherlock watched as it took a moment for John's question to register; she was eyeing the flat as if it was a suitcase in the middle of a Tube platform; suspicious, seemingly harmless but quite possibly dangerous.

"Oh, er, yes please. Thank you." Though her answer was meek, her voice was strong and betrayed little fear. Again, Sherlock couldn't help but be impressed at the emotional control the girl possessed. He could still deduce her easily, but she would give ordinary people a run for their money.

Sherlock shifted in his seat to face the window, keeping the girl in his peripheral vision, but giving her the chance to observe him without his knowing, or so he pretended. He could see her reflection in the window as her eyes rested on him. There was uncertainty there, and a bit of fear as well. But there was also a strong sense of curiosity, and not in a scrutinizing way.

John coughed pointedly from the kitchen. Sherlock knew exactly what the cough meant: _stop being such a cryptic-looking bastard and talk to the girl!_ He gave a small huff of exasperation and turned to face the teenager standing on the fringes of the den. She still wore her black Belstaff, much to Sherlock's approval, and the same army-green shoulder bag decorated with buttons of all sorts. She awkwardly hugged her right arm around her chest to grip her left, which hung down, and shifted her weight nervously from foot to foot.

Sherlock cleared his throat and addressed the girl.

"So, Ms. Bennett. I'm afraid we didn't have time to fully discuss your case during your previous visit. Where would you prefer to begin?"

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"Now Sherlock, hold on with the case for a minute," John scolded the detective as he entered the den with three steaming cups of tea.

"But-"

John cut him off with a look.

"_Fine_." The detective scowled as he accepted the mug the doctor held out to him. John offered the second mug out to Parker, who quickly bent forward to retrieve it, then pulled back, cradling the hot mug in her thinly gloved hands.

"Ta."

"No worries," John replied. He gestured to the sofa. "Why don't you have a seat?" He turned back to Sherlock and patted his chair good-naturedly. "Come on Sherlock, off your arse." The detective sighed dramatically, but nonetheless went to sit on one of the two chairs facing the sofa. Parker followed in suit, sitting across from the consulting detective. John sat down in the chair next to Sherlock, and the next thirty seconds or so were passed in complete silence until John spoke up, somewhat tentatively.

"Are you alright? I mean, since our last encounter."

He was concerned, to say the least. Who knew what sort of damage these people had inflicted? And a teenage girl with obvious trust issues- something he could relate to- wasn't going to let on how much pain she could be in to practically complete strangers.

John could tell Parker knew what he was getting at. She bit her bottom lip before replying, "yes, I'm fine." When John gave her a dubious look, she continued. " They weren't pleased, but I'm alright."

They had hit her again. Sherlock had been spot on in his assumptions, as usual.

"Can I take a look, if you're alright with it? I just want to make sure nothing's in need of serious medical attention."

Parker looked more than a bit uncomfortable, but John's medical instincts were screaming at him to at least evaluate her injuries.. To the good doctor's surprise, Sherlock spoke up from beside him.

"Don't worry," he addressed Parker in his deep baritone rumble, "John's used to stubborn patients. If you don't want him to do anything, he won't."

John chuckled, and Parker's lips twitched. Stubborn was certainly the right word to describe the detective when it came to injuries.

"Is that alright then?" He asked her. She exhaled deeply, immediately causing her to suck in a sharp breath; _damage to ribs_.

She gave a nod of confirmation. "Yes, Doctor Watson."

"John's fine," he smiled at her, before standing and heading down the hall to the loo to get his med kit. "And that git's Sherlock, not Mr. Holmes. Don't let him intimidate you." He called back.

If John had turned around, he would have seen a small, yet genuine smile ghost across Parker's lips and hold, just for a few seconds.


End file.
